


From Antares to Lansmere

by windfallswest



Series: Woods and Waters Wild [3]
Category: Stargate - All Series
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fusion, First Time, IN SPACE!, M/M, Plot What Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-21
Updated: 2011-12-21
Packaged: 2017-10-27 16:52:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,731
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/297988
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/windfallswest/pseuds/windfallswest
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>"I'd give you a wave, but I'm shipping out tomorrow."</i></p><p>Ganis Station: mid 3506</p>
            </blockquote>





	From Antares to Lansmere

John Sheppard looks up from where he's been spinning his coaster on the bar-top when the bartender comes back with his beer. He smiles a bit apologetically, hooks his heels over the bottom rung of his barstool, and relaxes a bit further into his loose slouch.

The bar is maybe a bit on the 'not' side of classy, but it's still far from some of the dives this way-station had to offer. John picked it because of the honest static on the holo-sign that projects the name Amphora along with a curvy jar sporting a moving marquee of fish and antiquated, wind- and oar-powered ships over the doorway. Also because it's a dim, less-frequented hole in the wall and seemed at first glance to be free of the clutter of rank insignia to be found along the docks.

John sips his beer and lets his gaze drift idly over the crowd. There are a few other uniforms mixed in among the patrons, fatigues rumpled with long hours in transit or things more fun than transit, whichever.

John himself is in civvies, feeling oddly naked, but his last clean set of fatigues had an unfortunate intersection with some merchanter tyke's head-sized protein slurry about two steps off the airlock. John wasn't too upset; a week cooped up on the transport had put them all on edge. An anonymous night out, just a blank face in the crowd, enough space to wag his elbows, is just what the doctor ordered.

John gave them a resigned shrug and watched the rest of the troops debark en noisy masse before slipping back onboard, tossing his besmirched uniform in the scrubber, and heading back out.

Someone walks into the bar and claims himself a stool one over from John. His clothes are less than new, but John figures it's from wear and not from poverty. Their cut is just another sign that the Core is falling behind him.

The bartender gets the guy his drink and trundles off to continue his conversation with the redhead at the other end of the bar. John finds his eyes caught and held in the middle of shifting them away from the bartender's retreating Hawaiian print and back to his beer. The man raises his glass like a toast and takes a drink.

John turns to look at him straight on. His posture is better than John's, though not by much. Age is a crap-shoot, but his light, mousy brown hair is going to salt and pepper. His face is space-tanned and -weathered; best guess the captain or mate of some merchant rig. He's fit enough, like his clothes, and the set of his shoulders suggests that he could give a good accounting of himself in a fight. John isn't getting any hostility off him, though: just a guy enjoying his beer.

There's something, John can only describe it as irony, in his movements that suggests he knows he's being watched and John finds he already likes the guy. He lifts his own glass, returning the salute.

The guy jerks his chin at the bartender when John finishes his beer. "Buy you a drink, sailor?" He quirks an eyebrow.

"Thanks." John's night is starting to look significantly less boring. Shiny.

"The name's Jack, by the by." He holds out his hand.

"John," John introduces himself, shaking it. "What gave me away?"

"No other reason for you to be hanging 'round these parts. You're too pretty to be one of the usual crowd."

"Come here often, do you?" John asks.

Jack shrugs. "I've passed through a time or two. It's on the way from Antares to Lansmere."

"So it is," John agrees, washing away a pang of home-sickness with a mouthful of beer.

They talk a beer or so longer. When Jack excuses himself and saunters out the side door, John finds himself watching his ass. He isn't too surprised to be following a few minutes later.

John steps through the door, out of the foggy, badly filtered and dim air of the bar and into a gritty service hallway. Jack is waiting around the corner, hands stuffed in his pockets and fidgeting idly. His lips twitch upwards when he sees John.

John doesn't give him a chance to do any more than open his mouth before he has him backed against the wall in a full-body kiss. A moment's surprise and Jack is with the programme, most definitely, all hands and hot, messy kisses.

"I have...nnf...a room, you know."

John is busy wriggling his hand up Jack's shirt. "Funny, so do I." His voice is breathier than normal while Jack's has gone lower, close to hoarse in a way that shoots sparks down John's spine.

"Tiānna, you'd go down on me right here, wouldn't you?" John doesn't reply, just rubs his thumb over one of Jack's nipples, nips at his jaw with a little growl. The curve of muscle and rib feels good in his hand, almost as good as—ohfuck, maybe not—as Jack's hands on his ass, grinding them together.

They are moving, John's other arm no longer bracing him against the wall but exploring Jack's back. He's drunk on something more than a few cheap beers, maybe on whatever moved him to peel away from the blare and flash of dockside lights in the first place, slip into civvies and not his semi-formals. It's not until he hears the door closing that John realises he's in a bedroom and then Jack's hands are working on his belt.

Excellent idea. John's mouth slides from Jack's, panting cheek to cheek, instead focussing his attention on the row of small, stubborn buttons standing between him and Jack's skin.

Jack is evidently bent on distracting him. He has John's pants open now and he's dragging his fingers over John's dick lightly, like a blind man with a sculpture. It's maddening and John shivers with each brush of callused fingertips.

"I want you naked," Jack whispers in his ear, but he's finally got his hand around John's cock, jerking him with slow, firm strokes that don't seem like stopping.

"Mmmnugh," John moans, or something like it. He is well on his way to lost. Jack is licking his neck now, swipes of his tongue and little sucking bites, not enough to leave marks, just their ghosts that he'll feel all through tomorrow. Jack reaches the collar of his shirt and noses it down a little, exposing a scar right before the curve of his shoulder, breathing hot, moist breath over it before biting down and John comes in an unexpected rush.

Still working his way through a post-orgasmic haze, John squints suspiciously at Jack's not-so-blank-it-can't-be-read expression.

"Think that was funny, do you?"

John doesn't wait for a response, just leans in for a kiss, lush and demanding, opening Jack's mouth and plundering it. He pulls back slowly, Jack's lower lip between his teeth and smiles in that way that makes everyone uncomfortable.

Very purposefully, John sinks to his knees.

"Oh, fuck," said Jack reverently

Jack's hard cock is straining against the fabric of his trousers. John mouths it through the material, drawing Jack's hands to cup his head as if by magnetism. When Jack's vocabulary has been reduced to insensibly hot gasps and choked groans, John backs off and opens up Jack's trousers, pushing them down together with his boxers and freeing Jack's erection.

Looking up, John catches dark eyes staring back at him. He licks his lips, then opens his mouth to take his first taste. He never looks away, fascinated by the closed-open flickering of Jack's eyelids and the expression on his face.

"John, John, ohyeah, John, yes." Jack finds his voice again as John takes him further in. He feels the head nudge the back of his throat and backs off incrementally, savouring the heavy, familiar weight. John swirls his tongue around the head, into the slit, and goes back down. He swallows this time, taking it all the way in. In and out, hungry rhythm more powerful than a heartbeat, older than flight.

Jack fucks his mouth, John's name falling from his own in a tangle of curses. This is fast and dirty, yanking Jack's orgasm from him while something explodes in his brain. Later, John thinks, he will take his time. It's a fleeting thought and he doesn't give it much attention because Jack is coming in salt bitter spurts over his tongue.

John takes it all. Jack's hands are still wound through his hair and John responds to the gentle but firm tug upwards, letting Jack's spent cock slip from between his lips with something like regret. Eventually, he slithers to his feet, reverse motion up Jack's body.

"Damn, you're good at that," Jack mutters. He manoeuvres them to the bed and starts pushing John's clothes off with lazy fingers. John leans into it, trying to burrow closer.

"Hey, now." Jack fixes the problem by momentarily pinning John's arms over his head. "Now that's a view I could get used to," Jack remarks, blatantly leering at John's naked body spread out before him.

"Funny, that's just what I was thinking." John rubs his hands lazily up Jack's bare thighs.

"Control freak," he murmurs at Jack's annoyed look and slides his hands further up beneath Jack's shirttails. Jack shrugs out of the shirt and lays down next to him.

John dozes for a while, stares at the ceiling some, inhabiting a sort of low-grade buzz of streaming consciousness.

"M'father used to say that," John mumbles to Jack's shoulder. "That every place in the galaxy is on the way from Antares to Lansmere."

"Mmg?" is the slightly bemused response.

"He piloted a merchanter," John clarifies.

"S'nice." Jack has progressed from half-asleep to teasing John's nipples and seems to have missed the part in between where what's coming out of John's mouth actually matters. John rolls over on top of him: he can take a hint.

After the second round of sex, John blinks blearily at the clock, its blocky numerals proclaiming it to be an unhealthy hour of the morning Sighing, he sits up and starts rummaging for his clothes.

"I'd give you a wave, but I'm shipping out tomorrow," Jack tells him, leaning in the doorway

"Hey, that's my line."

"No, really, I'm serious."

"Me too." John smiles regretfully and leaves Jack with a kiss.


End file.
